


The Lecture

by enygmatic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enygmatic/pseuds/enygmatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frustrated with Doctor Chilton's smarmy behavior, Abel Gideon tries another hands-on lecture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lecture

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill I wrote for the Hannibal kink meme dreamwidth community.

"Abel, please! Think your positioning through. You don’t want to do this, you don’t _want_ these consequences.” 

Doctor Chilton was standing, having leapt to his feet at the intrusion. He hadn't much more time to react behind that, hadn’t managed anything more than once again _telling_ Abel what he was or wasn’t. Didn’t want to do this? _Au contraire._ One hand was up over his chest, with fingers splayed and the palm exposed to show surrender. The other was under his ostentatious desk, palm slamming against the security call. His eyes screamed fear as they zeroed in on the revolver pointed at his stomach. Sweat popped at the nape of his neck.

_Not again, no, not like this_ , echoed the panic between his neurons. Not here, not in his stronghold, his office. Not while he sat upon his gilded throne.

"Frederick. _Please._ I took the liberty of disabling that little antiquated cry for help of yours already. A buzzer. Under. Your desk. Really -- you haven't gotten proper cameras for your office?" Gideon took careful steps forward, his dark stare growing hungry. He hadn't died, that over half a year back, when Will Graham shot him. Alana Bloom had heard the gunshot, after all, she had summoned medical attention. For them both. He didn't bleed out, and so he hadn't died. 

But Abel Gideon wasn't living very much, either. If Chilton was allowed to alter Gideon's identity and survive, then Gideon was allowed to return the favor. He conceived a way to lecture Chilton on proper human behavior, the lesson purposefully unconventional. Humiliation was the only thing Chilton knew intimately, Gideon reasoned. It was the only way to teach him. And this? Well, this had the brisk benefit of a little payback, too. 

“Then again,” drawled Gideon. “Guess you never wanted anyone else watching, eh? Always the voyeur, never the observed.” 

“What is it you want?” Chilton hissed the words, his eyes running over the surface of his desk. He couldn’t find his fourteen-karat letter opener, despite the orderly fashion of his desk. His pulse throbbed, the panic quickening its usual pace. “Abel, let me reason with you. I’m in a position to grant you most _anything_.” 

“Oh I _know._ That you will be. In such a position. Now come around here, Frederick. Come, come on, I’m not going to give you a warning shot.” Gideon motioned with his hands, coaxing the psychiatrist to the other side of his massive oaken desk. Beckoning him closer.

The gun waved happily in his hand, a monument to his stolen authority. 

Chilton, however reluctant his impulse to obey was, nevertheless couldn’t doubt Gideon’s threat. He had classified the man as a sociopath, someone unable to empathize, someone prone to illogical impulsivity. And the eternal stitch scar running down from his chest to pelvis proved compelling in that argument: _Gideon was not fucking around._ The trail months before had yielded that cutting error, and the results were still stitched into his stomach. There was little room for counterargument, not with Gideon's behavior so factually pointed. The grimace scrawled over the psychiatrist's face betrayed his logic: he succumbed. However reluctantly. The next moment had Chilton moving out from the minor protection of his desk, walking around to face Gideon. Not even two feet separated them. The other man reached out to grab Chilton’s face, cupping it, and he grinned widely.

“It’s all right, Frederick. You can take your time. There’s a bit of a learning curve,” said Gideon. His chin dropped down, exposing a most giddy smile. “Now bend over that pompous desk of yours. Tsk, your decorative tastes. So overcompensating. Bend over, yes, face down if you would.” 

“What?” He hadn’t quite believed his ears, the unorthodoxy of Gideon's request. That position seemed so… Sexual. 

“Now. Bend. Over. That pompous desk of yours, really now Frederick! You’re not much of a listener.” For emphasis, Gideon playfully stabbed the gun’s muzzle into Chilton. Right into his scarred up stomach. The psychiatrist blanched, his face a narrative for nausea, before he numbly nodded. Chilton looked at the desk, with his psychology books and pens neatly arranged -- but nevertheless obscuring his path. He moved to clear away some items.

“Did. I. Say to move _anything_?” Gideon asked, the gun stroking against Chilton’s lower back. “I told you to bend over, Freder _ick_.” 

Chilton sneered, already soaking in embarrassment, as he bent at the waist. His cheek was flushed against that letter opener that had earlier eluded him, his chest meeting the desk. 

"Very good. Now. Stay down," Gideon commanded. He positioned himself to one side of Chilton, the side sporting the back of his profiled head. The gun whispered against the man’s cerebellum, and he could feel Gideon’s fingers trickle down his spine. 

The slap against his ass, sudden and sharp, drew an equal scream from Chilton. Another slap inspired a snarl. 

“What the -- !" A gasp tore from his throat, burning and shamed. "How _dare_ you -- Stop immediately -- !” Chilton tried to jerk upwards, until Gideon lightly tapped the gun against the back of his head, reminding him of his place. "Good god!"

“Oh. That’ll earn you ten more. Here’s a tip: don’t make any loud noises. You won’t like the arithme _tic_ much.”

Gideon groped Chilton from behind, preparing him for those promised ten. His fingers dug into flesh, understanding the contours through physical touch. Testing for particularly twitchy nerve clusters. Chilton, against his desk, began to whimper. 

Gideon pulled back his hand, holding it high for a moment. Only when Chilton glanced back, tense from the suspense, did Gideon smack against that ass again. And again. And. Again. Chilton’s shoulders shook as he heaved a repressed yell, his hands clenching in protest. This was a unique pain, compared to what Gideon had already dealt him: burning, stinging, a tight wound heat growing from his thighs. Chilton trembled, the sensation perplexing him. So focused was he that he neglected to note how Gideon had abandoned his grip on the gun to simply hold Chilton’s head down by naked hand. 

Whines mutated into low moans, and Chilton found himself moving in tandem with Gideon’s smacks. The realization choked him. 

His final escapist effort was mostly for appearances. As his elbows dug in against his desk, trying to propel him upwards, Gideon pressed his body down to pin the petulant psychiatrist. 

“Frederick, _Frederick._ Why can’t you take your medicine like a good boy? I’m trying to _teach_ you something. I’m trying to improve your attitude,” said Gideon, his whisper low and dark, as he bit Chilton’s left ear. Chilton’s now florid face implicitly matched his other set of cheeks. Gideon gently patted Chilton’s lower back, his deft fingers quickly moving around Chilton’s waist and undoing a dark leather belt. And unzipping a pair of expensive tailored trousers. Dark blue. 

“Don’t move,” warned Gideon. 

Chilton, convinced that he obeyed purely out of curiosity, still couldn’t ignore the anticipating heating between his legs. He didn’t move, not even as Gideon removed the framed doctorate diploma from the adjacent wall. 

Not even as Gideon adjusted that framed diploma against his trousersless ass. 

Satisfied with the aesthetic, Gideon drew back the frame to slap against Chilton. Glass first. Chilton groaned, clawing at his desk, panting out halfway pleas -- and still Gideon paddled him. The cold, pristine feel of that glass frame that posed as veneer to Chilton’s pride and joy agonized his backside. Unlike Gideon’s hand, this starkly unfeeling texture was unmovable. Chilton writhed under the attention, pressing his pelvis hard against the desk to hide anything incriminating. 

Gideon thought the modesty was somewhat adorable, but not adorable enough to elicit mercy. He swung the frame against Chilton until he heard glass crack, and the psychiatrist moan out desperately. 

"There now, shh, there. That was a lesson sorely needed, wasn't it?"

“This -- _god_ \-- this isn’t how it ends, Abel. I simply cannot _let_ you end it like _this._ I won’t let you,” Chilton said, his feverish moans yielding to the brisk horror of his (however brief) submission. His ego had already begun to rationalize his reactions, trying to justify his bodily thrill. It was just survival, he told himself. It was only logical to succumb. 

“Oh, of course not, Frederick. We’ve only just begun the semester.”


End file.
